


Square Peg

by Adrenalineshots



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Kickass Aramis, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7368982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set early in Season 3 (right after episode 1). Porthos has taken upon himself to get Aramis to see a couple of truths and ends up finding a few about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Square Peg

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This story was written for a prompt from the BBCMusketeerKink meme that said: _'After watching the three inseparables train in s3 ep2, Aramis makes a comment about Porthos hitting him hard. I want a fic where Aramis and Porthos are training and either Porthos hits a little too hard and knocks Aramis out or they are wrestling during training and Porthos doesn't notice Aramis tapping out, thereby rendering his brother unconscious. I need Porthos to go from terrifying deadly worrier to concerned protective guilty tender sweet brother in 0.3 seconds.'_
> 
> What came out kind of filled that request, with a lil' bit of angst in the midst ;)
> 
>  
> 
> More AN: Many thanks to the wonderful and very talented **JackFan2** , who worked her magic on this little piece and made it all better!

Aramis had never imagined that things would be exactly the same as they had been before, but he hadn't quite expected so much to have changed, to find so many places where he no longer fit.

 

Starting with his old clothes. And his friends.

 

_‘Idle hands are the devil’s tools’_ was probably one of the Abbot’s favorite adages, one he was most fond of repeating whenever he laid eyes on any of the brothers looking lost or empty handed.

Life at the monastery had been anything but idle, and four years of hard work had made certain that Aramis was in as good a shape now as he had been prior to exchanging the life of Musketeer for that of a servant of God.

 

Most of his days had been spent taking care of the orphans that kept showing up at the monastery’s gates, but as one of the few brothers in wait to take his Orders, Aramis had also been charged with tending to the vegetables’ garden and the small number of chickens and Eve, the lonely cow that they kept in stock.

 

There was also the undeniable fact that most of the other monks were well past their prime. This left Aramis as the one they grew used to turn to whenever something was in need of repair or some other work, requiring greater stamina or more strength than the older monks could dispense, was necessary.

 

Now that he had some perspective of the time spent there, Aramis had to wonder if perhaps finding himself in such high demand amongst the monks had all been a part of the clever Abbot’s design, to force him to leave his past behind and embrace his new life. _‘Idle hands are the devil’s tools’_ indeed, and for four years Aramis never once found himself alone with his thoughts.

 

As he tried to slip into his old doublet, Aramis found it constricting where it hadn’t been before, his arms barely fitting as he tried to slip in the sleeves. He could only surmise that the cause was the newly acquired muscle in his arms and upper body, as he had could barely do the buttons across his chest.

 

The confining clothing certainly wasn't due to any increase in flabbiness or weight. Outside supplies at the monastery had been meager and what little they managed to produce was to be shared with the local families who had seen the war destroy their crops and kill their animals. If not for the brothers, many would have starved.

Of what remained afterwards, most of the times, was not nearly enough to keep all the monks reasonably fed and healthy. Being the youngest, Aramis had more than once gone without his share so that the older, and sometimes ailing brothers, could have something in their stomachs. Which would explain why his pants felt too loose, not matter how hard he tied his belt.

 

“Come on, then,” Porthos called out from the middle of the yard. “Lets see wha' all tha' soft life did fer you!”

 

Aramis tossed his doublet on the bench, resigned to the fact that he would have to buy new clothing, and joined his friend on the training field. His shirt, at least, still fit. More or less.

 

Porthos had insisted that it would not be fair to the other recruits for Aramis to be exempt from earning his place just because he had been a Musketeer before. Not after he’d been gone for so long and certainly not when the rest of the cadets had to work so hard to prove their worth before they were even fit to wear a Musketeer's pauldron.

 

The words, like most of those the big man had spoken to him since his return, were not easy to hear and had stung not only Aramis' heart, but also his pride.

 

Aramis had been a soldier for all of his adult life, having started at an even younger age than d'Artagnan himself. To imagine that four years away from the violence that used to rule their lives, fours years without taking a life...to _assume_ that such a short amount of time would be enough to erase a lifetime worth of experience and skill, it had been...unexpected.

 

“We'll start easy on ya,” Porthos announced for all to hear, as if rendering him some kind of favor. “Brujon here's one of our finest cadets. Let's see if ya still remember your sword play,” he poked, ushering the young man to the center of the yard. “If not, he'll be enough to land ya on yer ass!”

 

Aramis resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If would not be fitting of him to do so and it would, most certainly, offend the poor lad. Brujon seemed like a nice, honorable young man who, clearly, had no clue about the part he was playing in the lesson that Porthos appeared so eager to teach Aramis.

 

The return of the prodigal son was not, it would seem, one of the Bible's passages that Porthos was overly found of.

 

Brujon attacked right away, eager to prove himself, even if his style was still too pristine and within the strict rules of fencing and sword play. Porthos would do well to spend some of his time teaching the new recruits some of the marvelous 'dirty' tricks that he had mastered over the years and that had saved their lives more than once.

 

Aramis could detect a certain rust to his movements, a degree of imbalance that robbed him of some of the grace and panache he used to display in a fight. Some of it was certainly due to lack of practice, but he was well aware that the skirmish with the Spanish smugglers that had brought him and others together, had also left its mark.

Despite the bruising and soreness, his body didn't seem to have forgotten how to move, how to feint and parry, how to hold his own. The more Aramis moved, the less he had to think about the motion of his arms and legs, his limbs remembering the ‘dance’ quite well.

Years of experience and long hours spent sparring against Athos made sure that his skill with a sword proved to be far superior to that of a recruit. The fight was, actually, becoming invigorating, like a hood over his head finally lifting, allowing him to breath freely.

 

Brujon, to his credit, was actually as good as Porthos had proclaimed, lasting a whole of two minutes before Aramis disarmed him with a flourish. “Well fought, Brujon,” the former monk offered graciously, gently bowing to his adversary.

 

Color flushed over the young lad's face at the compliment, his smile shy as he nodded in return. “I hope this wasn't some sort of test for me,” he whispered, looking slightly worried now that he realized that he had actually lost. “I know that the Captain doesn't have a whole lot of time to train with us, but you're just as scary good as he is...”

 

“It was a test,” Aramis whispered back, winking at the youngster. “Just not one intended for you,” he finished, patting the younger man on the back. “Do not fret.”

 

“Ciprian, Morsan, yer turn,” Porthos barked, sending two other cadets into the arena.

 

Aramis raised an eyebrow in amusement. Porthos knew well enough that, like Athos, he was able to use his left hand with almost the same level of skill as his right. The two boys walking reluctantly in his direction, however, did not look like they had been informed of that little detail.

 

Nevertheless, if they thought that two against one was, in some way, unfair or against the rules, neither dared to open his mouth to argue the fact with Porthos.

 

“G’ on, then!” the big man shouted, urging them to move and take fighting stances. “Attack!”

 

“Quit frightening the children, Porthos,” Aramis admonished in jest, wiggling his left hand towards the sword resting on top of the table, by Porthos' side.

 

On cue, the big man tossed him the second weapon, further confusing the cadets. Still, it would seem, an order was an order and they stepped forward, both going for a frontal attack.

 

It was like slipping into a pair of comfortable, well-worn boots. Aramis felt more at ease with two weapons in his hands rather than a single one. He fell into his old rhythm, forgetting about the time he had been apart from his family, forgetting about the fences he'd still needed to mend, forgetting even about the troubles he had left behind and were still waiting for him to face them.

~§~

It was not like he wanted to see his friend needlessly suffering. In fact, it was his fear of losing Aramis that prompted Porthos to test his friend's skills one recruit after another, under the hot Parisian sun, in a manner that would seem almost cruel to most.

 

The younger man had not lost his touch with his pistols, as they had witnessed first hand during the attack at the monastery. And judging from how he was holding his own in the practice ring, he had not forgotten his sword play either.

 

Still, Porthos had seen far too many good men, skilled soldiers, die in the recent years. He refused to add Aramis' memory to that lot.

 

Now, it was just a matter of making Aramis realize that he was no longer a soldier, that he was better off away from the violence and danger, away from the life of a Musketeer. Because for all that he had missed his brother in battle, Porthos could not stand the thought of...

 

No. Aramis had been safe for four years and if it was up to Porthos, he would remain safe for the rest of his life. Even if he had to hurt him to achieve that.

 

“'nough of tha'!” he barked, putting a stop at the current fight. It was plain to see that Aramis was merely playing with the two recruits, his gestures quickly becoming more and more elaborated until the poor lads were too confused to do anything about the man dancing around them with two sharp blades and had started to trip over their own feet in a series of clumsy and failed attacks. “Lets try some fist fight instead...”

 

Aramis smiled at him, one of those warm smiles that used to make Porthos' soul feel lighter. Now, the only thing he could see was a man running towards his doom.

 

“Why not?” the marksman offered, walking towards the table to lay both weapons on its surface.

 

Despite his casualness, Porthos could see the sweat running down the side of Aramis' neck and making his hair cling to his forehead. He was starting to tire. Good.

 

“And which poor soul do you wish me to get bloody?” Aramis asked wolfishly, making a show of rolling up his sleeves.

 

“Me,” Porthos offered, watching in satisfaction as the smile dropped from Aramis' face.

 

It had been years since they had gone against each other, and at the time, it was Porthos the one being tested. Aramis had held his own, far better than what was expected of someone of his build, using his speed and nimble body to evade the worst of Porthos' fists. In the end, it had been a lifetime of using his fists to defend his life that had assured the bigger man's victory. That and the use of a couple of tricks so dirty that even Aramis had been left too stunned to defend himself.

 

Afterwards, he had 'demanded', as a retribution for his broken nose and split lip, that Porthos teach him every single one of those tricks, lessons that he had been more than happy to oblige.

 

Other than Treville and a few others who had been at the garrison in those early days, no one else had ever seen the unbreakable duo of Porthos and Aramis raise their fists against each other. Not even Athos.

 

“Usual rules?” Aramis asked, quickly regaining his composure.

 

It was a loaded question, if Porthos had ever heard one. _Usual rules_ , as early on established by the former Captain of the Musketeers, was to fight until one of the opponents was subdued and yielded by tapping his fist against the ground. It was the rule that prevented overly enthusiastic recruits or soldiers from hurting each other and causing needless training injuries.

 

The Inseparables never played by the usual rules. If there was one thing that all of them seemed to have in common, it was a stubborn streak that prevented them from giving up when more prudent men would simply back away. Then again, it was not often that the four of them could be accused of being prudent.

 

“T' usual rules,” Porthos agreed, carefully unbuckling his doublet and setting it over the table. He cracked his knuckles against each other, just because he could.

 

The eye roll that Aramis sent his way was so reminiscent of the old days that it made Porthos' heart ache. _God_ , he had missed that.

An eerie silence had settled over the garrison, as the number of people watching the training grounds suddenly seemed to double.

 

This was it. Porthos' chance to prove to Aramis that he no longer belonged with the Musketeers, that he was better off doing his priestly things and tutoring children.

 

That he was safer away from Porthos.

 

The big Musketeer took a few steps to the left, circling his opponent until Aramis was right where he wanted him, facing the sun. The younger man squinted at him, annoyed and clearly aware of the tactic.

 

It mattered not. In between one squint and Aramis' quick struggle to adjust to the intense light, Porthos attacked.

~§~

Although he would never confess to it, Aramis was beginning to feel the burn of too many hours of sword fighting under a hot sun. His back, bruised from fighting the men who had attacked the monastery, felt like it was on fire, making his breath hitch whenever his muscles seized up.

 

Sweat stung his eyes and his arms were starting to strain from the abuse, his left one in particular, enough that he could feel a certain sluggishness seep into his movements. None of that would do him any favors when facing Porthos.

 

The tall Musketeer had earned a certain reputation for himself within the garrison's walls. No one could really defeat him in battle when no weapons were involved, that much was common knowledge amongst the Musketeers. It had, however, become a point of pride to still be standing on your own two feet after Porthos was done with his fighting.

 

A feat that not many could claim to have achieved.

 

If Aramis could hope for even the slightest chance of holding his own against Porthos, he would have to place all of his coin on speed and agility and try to end the fight as quickly as possible.

 

Of course, Porthos was also light on his feet and agile, which for someone of his size, was a fact that had surprised their enemies on plenty of occasions. To Aramis, while that was not surprising, it certainly was not helpful for his odds of not making a fool of himself.

 

Porthos charged in, a powerful image that would have frightened to death any sensible adversary, and even Aramis himself, had he not been aware that this was merely a practice fight. Yes, blows landed and bruises were gained, but the training grounds were not the place to use excessive force or brutality.

 

The marksman easily sidestepped Porthos' first lunge to his face, only to fail to see the lower fist that had been aimed to his side.

 

The power behind the blow left him out of breath, stunned by both the pain it had caused and the sudden dawning that the bigger man was not playing around.

 

“Very well...” he whispered to himself. If that was how Porthos wanted to do this...

 

Aramis sidestepped again, this time moving around Porthos and landing a powerful kick to the back of his knees, quickly followed by low swipe of his foot.

 

The bigger Musketeer howled in pain and stumbled, his balance lost as he nearly toppled over. The marksman saw his chance to land a few hits of his own, aiming for Porthos' jaw.

 

In the last possible second, Porthos regained his balance and his hand surged out of nowhere, stopping Aramis' fist before he could make contact. Strong fingers contracted around his hand until the marksman could feel his knuckles grinding painfully against each other.

 

In a competition of strength, the smaller man knew that he would always lose. Deprived of his leverage, Aramis resorted to the only move he could use on such close quarters.

 

His knee jerked up, the sharp bone aimed mercilessly at Porthos' groin.

 

The tall man grunted, shooting Aramis a look that spoke both of pain and surprise, before falling to his knees.

 

In his eagerness to end the fight, Aramis made the one mistake that he had seen Porthos' opponents fall into time and time again. He stepped in too close.

 

Porthos rolled on the ground, rising to his feet in one fluid movement that would have made men half his size envious. Aramis registered his friend's flickering hand, but it was too late to stop the cloud of dust from hitting his eyes, blinding him to the big man's next movement. Strong arms engulfed his chest like a vise and Aramis felt the ground escaping from beneath his feet, as Porthos' powerful lunge sent them both crashing to the ground.

 

Air fled Aramis' chest as his back hit solid ground, still too fresh bruises exploding in renewed pain. Before he could catch his breath, the no less solid weight of Porthos followed, landing on top of him.

 

The tall Musketeer grinned ferociously at him, certain of his victory now that he had Aramis trapped, his arms pressed against the dirt under Porthos' knees.

 

“Surrender,” Porthos demanded, increasing the pressure.

 

Aramis couldn't breathe. His upper body felt like a wooden board, stiff and unmoving, trapping his lungs inside, stopping any air from coming in or going out.

 

Porthos, looking down at him, seemed to be waiting for Aramis to voice the words, oblivious to the fact that the trapped man simply could not. His mouth was opened, gaping like a fish's, but no sound seemed to escape his lips.

 

Aramis could see the moment when his friend lost his patience, clearly mistaking his silence for stubbornness to admit defeat, and increased the pressure on the marksman's chest. Had he possessed the ability, Aramis would have screamed.

 

Or maybe he did scream. Sound seemed to have deserted him, the world growing muffled and silent, the noise of the rest of the garrison slipping underneath the pounding of his wild heart.

 

He locked his eyes with Porthos' begging his friend to understand what was happening, urging him to stop before this turned into something that he would forever regret.

 

The man looking down at him was a stranger wearing his brother's face, a violent version of Porthos that Aramis could not recognize.

 

Four years ago, they would have been able to have entire conversations with nothing more than a few looks and a couple of eyebrow waggling. Now, Aramis could not even make his brother understand that he was killing him.

~§~

Porthos had always known Aramis to be a very stubborn man, a trait that had gotten him in trouble on more than one occasion.

 

What he could not believe was that his stubbornness would blind him to the point of refusing to admit defeat when he had been so clearly beaten. Granted, Aramis had stood his own better than Porthos had expected him to, but the whole garrison could see that he was trapped and with no way to regain the upper hand. The reasonable thing to do was to yield.

 

And yet, Aramis remained silent. His eyes were locked with Porthos', the expressive brown orbs so similar to his own trying to convene... what? That he would not give up? That he could be a Musketeer again based on the strength of his resolve alone?

 

Porthos pressed harder, silently letting him know how much he was wrong, that it was time to give up. That Porthos' resolve was as strong as--

 

Breath seized inside his chest as the big man saw a single tear escape Aramis' eye, right before those familiar brown orbs rolled inside his head and his eyes closed. “Shit!”

 

He jumped aside as fast as the devil running from the cross. For one split second, Porthos wondered if Aramis was just pretending in order to get the upper hand, but he swiftly squashed the idea away. No matter how long he stayed away, Aramis would always be a man of honor.

 

He had been so blinded by his notion of teaching Aramis a lesson, with his mission to send him away from danger and being hurt, that he had failed to see what was truly happening. He had been the one to hurt Aramis.

 

“Aramis...com' on,” Porthos called out, wanting to shake his friend back into awareness but too afraid to touch him, less he made things worse. “Now who's frightenin' t' children, hey?”

 

Aramis, ever the stubborn man, refused to listen to his words, his eyes remaining closed. Porthos couldn't even tell if he still draw breath, seeing no movement to his chest.

 

“Damn you, Aramis!” the bigger man growled, fear turning into anger, hands turning into fists. “Som'one fetch a physician, now!” he commanded, sending at least two cadets into a mad dash into the streets of Paris.

 

What had he done? For all the atrocities he has seen during his years at the front, for all the things he had always vowed never to do, here he was, standing over his best friend's unresponsive body. And he had been the one to cause it.

 

The ugly truth was, he _had_ wanted to hurt Aramis.

 

The marksman's decision to leave the Musketeers had been sad, yes, but his refusal to join him and the others as they moved to fight Spain, that had tasted of betrayal.

 

A betrayal that had wounded him deeper than Porthos would ever care to admit. So, somewhere deep and ugly inside of him, he had wanted to hurt Aramis in return.

 

What a fool he had been.

 

“Damn you!” he let out, banging a fist against Aramis' still chest. “Damn myself...”

 

The deep gasp startled Porthos out of misery. He blinked, barely believing his eyes as he saw Aramis' chest heave deeply, life returning with a vengeance, like the marksman wanted to gulp down all the air he had been denied in those few moments of suspended life.

 

Gulping for air gave way to coughing, the younger man's face contorting in pain as he fought to regain control over his rebelling chest. Porthos, shaken out of his stupor, surged into action, grabbing onto Aramis' shoulders and pulling him higher, to ease his breathing.

 

“'m so sorry, m' friend,” he found himself mumbling over and over again. “So very sorry...I didn't mean to...”

 

Aramis' eyes were open, but they hardly looked focused, dashing around aimlessly like he was searching for something to made sense in the otherwise confusing surroundings.

 

Understanding struck Porthos in a way that had failed him when Aramis had been begging for his help moments before. “You're at the garrison,” the big man explained, figuring that after four years away, the monastery -rather than the garrison's walls- had become Aramis' home. “You're safe.”

 

The very word tasted like poison against his tongue.

~§~

The moment Athos stepped inside the garrison's walls, he knew something was amiss. “What happened?” he demanded of the fifth cadet in a row that passed him by and refused to meet his eyes.

 

The young man winced at his sharp tone, but the feeling of unease inside his chest made the Captain less than sympathetic with boy's feelings. “There was an accident, Sir,” the cadet - Bellard, if he wasn't mistaken- supplied, looking anywhere but Athos' face. “During the training session, Sir.”

 

Training accidents, while bothersome, were truly all too frequent to explain the level of discomfort the boy currently displayed. There was something more to it, the Captain was sure.

 

However, before Athos could press the young man for further details, a mere glimpse of the balcony outside his office told him all that he needed to know. Despite everything that he had gone through, the sight still sent his heart racing with fear.

 

Porthos was pacing the short space like a caged tiger, ready to claw apart any who dared come too close. D'Artagnan, sitting on the last step that gave access to the balcony, was nervously biting his nails. Which meant that behind those closed doors...

 

“How badly is Aramis wounded?”

 

The two other men startled, each too tightly wrapped in his own thoughts to have noticed Athos' presence.

 

“He doesn't even have a bed, did ya know that?” Porthos blurted out instead of answering. “Instead of asking for his old rooms back, or any other, fer that matter, the bastard's just been sleppin' in the common room. One of t' cadets just told me that.”

 

Athos took a deep breath, resisting the urge to pull at his hair. “What does tha-”

 

“And did ya know that he was injured?” Porthos went on, completely oblivious to Athos' predicament or his mounting curiosity. “I mean... from before, when t' gunpowder was stolen by the Spanish?”

 

“Wha--”

 

“His back was all black an' blue and there was a bloody bullet wound on his arm,” Porthos went on, resuming his pacing. “How was I supposed t' know that if he kept quiet 'bout it?”

 

“What in Heaven’s name happened here?” Athos finally managed to put in, tired and frustrated with his friend's unusual verbosity about everything but what he wanted to know. “Why aren't you two with Aramis?”

 

“The physician kicked us out,” d'Artagnan explained, suddenly very interested in the condition of his own boots. “A few choice words, apparently unfit for Christian ears, might have slipped out when he helped Aramis' out of his shirt and Porthos saw the condition of his back...”

 

“A physician?” Athos parroted, moving to open the door to his office. If Aramis' condition was serious enough to warrant the presence of a professional, then he was done wasting time and wanted to see his brother with his own eyes. Since both Porthos and d'Artagnan seemed to have taken a leave from their senses, Athos figured that inside resided his best chance to understand what the hell was going on.

 

Before he could push the door open, however, the handle was yanked from his fingers and he found himself standing face to face with Aramis. His white shirt was hanging open and slightly askew, his face sweaty and almost the same shade as the garment. His hands, knuckles scraped and bloody, were clutching his weapons and belt in front of his chest like a shield.

 

“I'm fine,” the marksman stated before the Captain could even utter a word. “No need to make a bigger fuss about this.”

 

“I beg your pardon, young man,” an older voice called from inside. “I believe a _'fuss'_ is in order here, especially if you intend to overtax those back muscles any more than what they already are. And that arm nee--”

 

“What. Happened?” Athos cut in, asking the same question for what felt like the hundredth time. “And bear in mind that if I don't get an answer in the next five seconds, I might shoot someone,” he warned, not entirely sure his threat was an idle one.

 

“Nothing happened, just a trifle incident during training,” Aramis quickly pointed out. In his otherwise wan complexion, the crimson wave rising up his neck was all too evident.

 

“Tri—trifle?!” Porthos exploded. “Ya stopped breathing, ya thick-headed fool!”

 

Athos' eyes widened at that tidbit of information. In his mind, he could finally understand what had happened and Aramis' apparent embarrassment over the matter. Because instead of faulting his brush with death during training to his already battered body, the marksman would be completely blind to his own injuries and focus merely on the outcome. And exactly how hard had Porthos been pushing their brother in his training?

 

As Captain of the Musketeers, Athos had been of a mind to simply take Aramis back and welcome him amongst his brothers. Even Treville had seen nothing wrong with that scenario.

 

It had been Porthos who had opposed to simply slipping Aramis' pauldron up his sleeve before properly testing his skills, saying that it was unfair to the other cadets and a danger to both Aramis and the rest of them.

 

Athos had reluctantly agreed, knowing that, while fairer to the other cadets, the situation would be uncomfortable for the former monk.

 

Aramis ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes in resignation. “Fine... you've made your point perfectly clear, Porthos,” he let out with a sight, his eyes refusing to meet any of them. “I shall go and pack my belongings an--”

 

“Wait—what?!” d'Artagnan bursted out, stepping in front of Aramis before the injured man could take a step further. “Surely you're not serious...”

 

Aramis tossed his belongings to the floor, veering back to face the three of them. His face was laced with an intense fury, but also, Athos could see, a deep sadness. “It would seem that I no longer belong here,” he hissed. “I couldn't even...” he went on, his fury turning to fumes just as fast as it had erupted. “A simple fist fight, and I find myself waking up to an old man, poking at my ribs, welcoming me back from the dead,” he pointed out, running a hand through his matted hair. “I understand now what none of you chose to voice: being a Musketeer is no longer a suitable option for me.”

 

Athos pursed his lips, looking pointedly at Porthos. This was his doing; he should be the one pointing out to Aramis the complete and utter nonsense of what he was saying.

 

The big man, however, was still as a marble statue, silently watching as Aramis stomped down the steps and crossed the training yard.

 

“Are you going to...” Athos offered, thinking that perhaps Porthos was just too stunned to react.

 

“He's right,” Porthos finally let out, making his way to the stairs as well. “He's better off being a monk.”

 

Athos shared a look with d'Artagnan, neither quite believing what they were hearing.

More so than either of them, Porthos had been inconsolable four years ago, when they had traveled all the way to Douai only to be refused by Aramis. Drowning his sorrow in wine, Porthos had suggested at the time that they should just sneak back into the monastery during the night and take Aramis by force, ignoring the young man's wishes just so they could have him back.

It was completely absurd for Porthos to be pushing him away now that they had finally got Aramis where he belonged.

 

“Aramis was not happy as a monk,” Athos pointed out as he caught up with the bigger man on the stairs. As he remembered, he had been the only one eavesdropping on Aramis' conversation with God, Porthos and d’Artagnan having remained with the horses. “He will never be happy as anything other than a Musketeer...it's in his blood.”

 

“Well, better miserable than not breathin',” Porthos let out, not looking at either of them.

 

Athos almost smiled as he finally understood the crux of Porthos behavior. “Porthos…” he whispered, holding the man’s arm to stop him from fleeing. “This is _Aramis_ we speak of,” he voiced, knowing that the other man would understand all that the simple name implied. Aramis, the hopelessly romantic; Aramis, the brave fool; Aramis, the most loyal of friends; Aramis, the kindest of souls... “Do you truly expect him to stay out of trouble, merely because he's enclosed by the walls of a monastery?”

 

Porthos scoffed. All too recent events had proved exactly that point, as the regiment's stollen gunpowder found its way to Aramis' backyard, of all places.

 

“And do you really want him to be facing that trouble on his own?” Athos pressed, knowing that, above all else, Porthos wanted to see Aramis safe. “Or do you want to stand by his side, as we have always done?”

 

Porthos sighed, knowing defeat when it stared him in the face. “I'll go talk to 'im,” he offered, descending the rest of the steps.

~§~

Aramis had packed his belongings three times already, each time growing more furious at how little there had been in the first place. The garrison had been his home for the largest portion of his adult life and the notion that he no longer belonged there was, at the very least, jarring.

 

That he had so little to store away before taking his leave, only further drove in the point; deep inside, he had already known that this would not work out and hadn't bothered to make himself at home. He hadn't even looked for lodgings, more than happy to just sleep in the common room until his situation had been sorted out.

 

“You're all packed,” Porthos deep voice sounded from the door. “Good.”

 

Aramis resisted the urge to lash out at his _'friend's_ words. “Came to make sure I still knew where the gate is?” he offered bitterly. What had happened to Porthos to turn his sweet and caring brother into this... cold person? “No need to worry, I think I shall manage.”

 

Porthos raised his brow, noticing the tone. “Yer not leavin',” he stated, as if the matter was already set in stone. “I came to show you to yer new quarters.”

 

Aramis blinked, momentarily stunned. “What? I didn't ask for--”

 

“Ya didn't,” Porthos agreed, the words sounding like an accusation. “T' same way ya didn't bother to mention yer wounds and that you were in no fit condition to be training,” he went on.

 

For all the harshness of his tone, Aramis could see the plain concern underlying it all. It was familiar ground, a path they had travelled often in the past, as the marksman systematically would forget to mention his injuries, only to incur Porthos' wrath once he was discovered.

 

“I... they're just bruises,” Aramis pointed out lamely. “I've fought with worse,” he pointed out.

 

Porthos nodded, a gentle smile on his face as he seemed to remember a couple of those memorable occasions. “Aye, ya have... we all have.”

 

“Well, it shall not be a problem again. Clearly you think I’ve made a grievous mistake in returning,” Aramis blurted out. “You’ve made that _abundantly_ clear. I was a fool for thinking otherwise.” He moved to brush past the larger man when Porthos shot a hand out to catch him by the arm.

 

“Yer wrong,” Porthos argued. “Now if you’d just—”

 

“The only thing I was wrong about was returning with you and the others.”

 

“God I’d forgotten how bloody stubborn ya can be,” Porthos murmured, gently easing Aramis around to face him. “If it was tha' wrong, then why did ya come back in t' first place?”

 

“I told you. I was a fool. At least the orphans needed me for something and I left them behind...”

 

“Like ya left us four years ago,” Porthos couldn't help to point out.

 

Even after all those years, the words still carried all the weight and sorrow that the decision had caused. “I had my reasons, Porthos,” Aramis sighed, tired of explaining his actions over and over again. “I am sorry that you can neither understand nor forgive them, just as you, apparently, no longer find me worthy to rejoin the Musketeers' ranks,” he whispered, his shoulders sagging. “You think that I no longer fit here.”

 

“No,” Porthos said.

 

For a moment, Aramis felt like his breath was once again trapped inside his chest, his lungs unable to expand. He had figured that those were Porthos feelings but he had never imagined that the other man would so easily confess to them, mindless of the pain his words would cause..

 

“No...I'm t' one who isn't ready, t' one who no longer fits,” the taller man went on, oblivious to the reaction his pause had caused. “This war changed me... it changed all of us-”

 

“Porthos...”

 

“-except fer you,” he finished, finally meeting Aramis' gaze. “Do ya know wha' m' first thought was every time I came across t' dead body of a fellow soldier, every time I was told about another loss t' our side?”

 

Aramis shook his head, words failing him.

 

“ _'At least 'tis not Aramis'_ ,” Porthos confided. “Athos and d'Artagnan would be standin' there, right next t' me, all three of us looking at the corpses of our mangled mates, and all I cared about was that it wasn't you.”

 

“My friend...”

 

“War has made me a selfish man, Aramis,” the big man confessed, ashamed. “And you...ya reminded me of who I used t' be and-” he stopped himself, scratching his hair, seemingly at lost on how to proceed.

 

Aramis looked into his eyes, finally recognizing his friend in the warm, brown orbs. _'And now you're afraid that the price to pay for remembering that is to see my dead body amongst the battlefield_ ' he thought, knowing with the utmost certainty that those were the words on Porthos' mind, the ones he could not voice.

 

_'Aye'_ Porthos closed his eyes for a second, only to trap Aramis under his gaze in the following one. _'Will ya forgive me, brother?'_

 

Aramis smiled, tossing the bag with his belongings over one shoulder and his free hand over Porthos' shoulders. _'All's forgiven, brother.'_ “Now... I do hope these new quarters you speak of come with a better view,” he let out, falling instep with the bigger man. “Last time I had the most ghastly view of the horses' stalls, quite unfitting of a man of my stature.”

 

Porthos' hearty laugh was a sorely missed sound that filled Aramis' heart with joy as the man guffawed by his side. “Ya could say that... as ya'll be sleeping in a spare bed in my rooms!”

 

Aramis feigned his appall at the prospect, deep inside knowing that he could not wish for a better place. “But... you snore,” he pointed out. “Loudly. All night long.”

 

“That I do, brother... that I do,” Porthos agreed with no small degree of pride.


End file.
